


The Fateful Night

by SBlackmane



Series: Unrequited [1]
Category: Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Brother/Sister Incest, Dark Character, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lust, Obsession, Some canon compliance, TLDR, Unrequited Love, Very long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBlackmane/pseuds/SBlackmane
Summary: The King of Albion gives into his urge. This desire just may change the entire realm...What began as a flicker of emotion may become obsession, and may shape and mold events to come. But on this night, one fateful night, Adalia, Bowerstone's Princess, is his, and that is all that matters.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (I decided there are simply not enough LoganxPrincess fics on Archive. So I added one. Enjoy.)

     It was slow at first. Agonizingly slow.

     What began as a tightening in Logan's chest, no more than a glimmer of discomfort to disturb him, eventually spilled over into a full, empowered rage of unrequited aspiration. But before that, it was no more than a passing thought in his head. Nothing more than fleeting imagining on his part, for just a small, tormenting moment as he stood over the gilded table on which a map of Albion had been intricately carved. Slowly, rather lazily raising a glass to his face, wincing as the taste of liquor made its way from his tongue down the back of his throat. It was small, insignificant, at first. But late that night, as minutes passed, and alcohol swam through his veins, dulling his senses, it became more. So much more.

     For years he'd tried to figure it out, to wrap his head around where and how it all began, but that night he didn't try at all to rationalize. Not in the slightest. That night it didn't matter anymore. All that he had sacrificed for Albion, every decision made, every hard choice he agonized over, weighing on his soul, dragging him downward, further down through this dark, and very dismal spiral until there was nothing left of him, and he'd given every part of him...Everything he'd done...What had he gained? What would it matter? When at that moment, a visceral monstrosity of a thing, lurking in the shadows, threatened to rip it all apart? And everything he'd done might very well be for nothing? One falter, one wrong move, one pawn misplaced on a board and the kingdom fell?

     He didn't used to feel this tired, did he? Undoubtedly true, that he ached at times in his youth, ached with a terrible longing for the world, but not like this, never like this. When, once upon a time, he was a very vibrant, attentive individual. When did he get so old? So dried up and empty? At what exact moment did he stop being himself and just started being...cold?

     He realized he was such when, on that day, as he exited the throne room, aiming to retire within his study, he saw a figure walking past. This was no ordinary woman he soon realized, but for that split second as she walked by, and he caught the scent of lavender and lilac, not a robust aroma, like most of the harlots that dotted Bowerstone, but a soft one, saw a glimpse of mahogany hair out of the corner of his eye, flouncing, catching in the sunlight, revealing undertones of amber and honey in the afternoon sun, and turned back to stop and gaze for a moment upon the young noble woman, looking her up and down, eyes darting over her figure, filling out a white gown adorned with gold and sapphire trim, heart racing in his chest, where it hadn't in so long...In that moment, he didn't know he'd been admiring his own sister. He barely recognized her. His family was a stranger to him. He didn't know who she was until he heard a maid address her as Your Grace.

     When did he become so disconnected?

     They were close when they were younger. Once upon a time. Logan could remember many days in his youth chasing after his mischievous sibling as she ran through the wide palace doors, out into the sunlight, and how she terrorized him, interrupting his studies, but he loved it. She was so bright, filled with laughter, and so was he. Nothing like the man he became, the man he was just then, as he passed his estranged sibling in the hall, no longer chasing, but instead, simply walking away, as if she meant nothing to him, and he meant nothing to her. How time must've passed, right out from under them was the rug pulled and they were no longer children. He, the dutiful ruler of Albion, and she...she was so beautiful.

     He carried this thought with him for the entirety of the evening, and well into the night, all the way to that moment that he stood in the war room, overlooking the map of Albion with a stout drink in his hand. Her Grace, Adalia, Princess of Albion, second in line to the throne...was all grown up, and he didn't even notice. He could have sworn she was still only a child, a mere slip of a girl, had to be, for surely not so much time had passed as he thought. Though it was hard at times, to form a coherent thought, or make sense of what day it was, as they all strung together as of late, he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and most days only one thing was on his mind. Albion. But not that night. No, it couldn't be that Adalia was a woman, and Logan was an old and tired man.

     He sighed, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, before turning to the decanter on the table and refilling his glass. Perhaps drinking at this hour, with these thoughts in his mind was a terrible idea, but...Still, the rueful thought persisted. How his sister had grown, quite well, he noted, becoming a vision of beauty and grace, with perfect posture and a figure befitting of royalty, not a hair out of place, smooth complexion...

     She wasn't always so. Once upon a time she was a hellish nightmare of a child, with frizzy hair and freckles. Spoiled and self indulgent, lazy and careless, though stubborn, and quite determined, irrefutable, which was rather fitting for someone so nobly bred. But she was a menace to the servants that occupied the castle, at the behest of their doting father. Quite the opposite of what Logan used to be. Bright, aspiring, though usually reserved, diligent, careful. She had been none of that. She had been a selfish child. But still, he adored her so. He was equally a doting brother, as their father, and so also did Logan indulge her as well. She was hardly to blame for her behavior.

     But that moment, a second or two that was forever suspended, immortalized in Logan's mind, seeing her that day, she didn't resemble the spoiled brat he remembered. But she sort of looked like their mother. Logan hardly remembered her anymore. After she died giving birth to Adalia, her memory was more or less swept under the rug for their father's sake. He couldn't bear to live without her, couldn't bear the thought of her gone. So he struck her memory from the castle grounds, and upon his own death, Logan did the same, in a manner of speaking. His monuments and his final rest in the catacombs were all that was left of him, as far as he knew. But that day Adalia had grown, perhaps even surpassed their beautiful mother, and grew up to be quite the embodiment of every man's baser impulse...and for a fleeting moment, that included Logan's, until he realized who he'd been staring at. Perverse of a thought.

     And there she had been, a vision of perfection, inheriting all the most beneficial traits, from her height, coming just to his chin, to her hair, warm, wavy, soft curls that fell aimlessly, her full lips, her curves, all the way down to her graceful footsteps. He could hardly believe they were related. There was no similarity, no resemblance at all. His eyes, dark, reflecting of the gloom, the depressive reality that he held tightly to most days, but her eyes...warm, golden, filled with a spark that could illuminate the darkness around every corner. Young and vibrant, sheltered from the outside world and its horrors. So naïve, and not yet tainted by the wretchedness of life. She made a slight curtsy as she passed him in the hall, but nothing more, as if he were just as much of a stranger to her as she him. He imagined the small politeness she relented was only at the behest of the title he possessed. She bowed to her King. But she did not address her brother.

     They _were_ strangers, weren't they?

     Not just in the passing of time that created a rift between them both but...surely, with their differences, they were not truly related, were they? It didn't seem possible, but Logan could not deny, as he poured himself a third drink, downing it much more feverishly than the last, that it was only his imagination trying to rationalize the feeling building within him. The darkest corners of his heart merely grasping at straws, clinging to the wickedness within, attempting to justify it, latch onto it, and make it grow faster, reach deeper, last longer. But if it were true, than many things, many memories accrued over time, suddenly made more sense in his mind.

     He shuddered all of a sudden, leaning against the table, both hands flat upon it, as once more the scent of lavender crept through his senses, in memory of earlier that day. Subtle, yet intoxicating, more so than the drink he finished. Slow motion, slow waves crashing to shore, the hazy dream of catching her in his peripheral vision, gliding past, almost close enough to reach out and touch before she simply kept moving quickly through the hall, in a hurry, for whatever reason, Logan didn't know, and didn't ask. It was only a small, seemingly insignificant moment, just one, before he turned and made his way to his study, locking himself in, refusing to be disturbed for the remainder of the evening. Succumbing to the harsh truth that not only did he not know his own younger sibling when he saw her, but that he was undeniably attracted to her.

     It was slow at first, but what started as nothing more than a thought lingering in the back of his mind slowly grew, started picking at him, nagging him, sending him reeling, crawling all over him, and soon consumed him, just as he consumed the remainder of brandy in the decanter. Agonizingly slow it burned, until it took his breath away and he smashed the glass to the embroidered carpet beneath him, stumbling out of the war room, an ill-conceived notion, but one he didn't fight, once he realized what had come over him.

     The slow and tantalizing burn of desire, as sickening as it seemed to be.

* * *

     Through the darkened corridors of Bowerstone castle did the King of Albion slowly make his way. At this hour, well into the night, nothing stirred, nothing made a sound, save for his own footsteps. Too drunk, too enamored to kick awake the indolent guards that were supposed to be keeping watch at all hours. Too much of a haze clouded his vision to care. He had one thought in his head, one question on his lips, one thing he desired to know.

     He heaved a heavy sigh, resting his forehead against the coolness of the large wooden entrance to Adalia's chamber, gritting his teeth, the ill aftertaste of liquor on his tongue, drying his mouth. His jaw clenched before he opened his eyes and wrenched on the doorknob, though the sound it made was barely a whisper. The latch well oiled, and there was barely a creak to be heard. He leaned against the frame, collecting his balance, though not his integrity, as he pushed the door open to scan the room, finding a bed in the dim light, in which she slept soundly. He watched her for a time, just like that, poured his gaze over her. Lying on her back, breathing steadily. Ample breasts rising and falling with every breath, beneath a thin layer of silk, long strands of dark hair, entwined in moonlight cascading through the window, and a thin outline of golden glow, as embers still smoldered in the fireplace. He blinked. She was still there. This was still real, as far as he could tell. It had not been his imagination.

     His eyes moved from her sleeping form to the rest of the room, and for a second, he mused upon whether or not he'd actually been in that room before. Whether by drunkenness, design, or personal décor chosen by his sister, the room was certainly not recollecting of any memory at the moment. Shadows danced across the room as he stared at a painting above the mantle, a portrait of himself as a boy, along side a young Adalia, sitting at the feet of their parents. An obviously falsified illustration. Never had the four of them been together to sit for such a work of art. Though it was beautifully made. He didn't realize yet that he had started towards it, hands laced behind his back, admiring it, and the door had creaked shut in his wake, stirring the unconscious figure in the bed, until he heard the murmur of her soft voice behind him, giving him chills, making the hair raise on the back of his neck.

     "Logan?...What on earth are you doing in here?" she grumbled sleepily behind him.

     "I don't remember this painting." he said, ignoring her question, still mesmerized by the work. "How old is it?" he rubbed his chin. "How bloody long have you had it?" he chuckled. He heard rustling behind him, as she was sitting up in her bed. He turned back to her, making out her quizzical expression in the dark. Hair a tousled mess from sleep, falling over her like water.

     "What are you doing in my room?" she questioned, scrunching her face up in confusion, then slowly coming to her senses as it dawned on her, and her expression changed. "You've been drinking, haven't you?" she asked, slowly shaking her head in disappointment, as if a mother scolded her child for illicit behavior. He snorted a little in laughter, leaning against the closest thing, an armoire, shaking his head. A thought just occurred to him in that moment.

     "Eighteen years." he mumbled as he stared at the floor, his smile slowly fading, as fleeting as it was. "It's been eighteen years, little sister, and I just realized something...I don't know a damned thing about you."

     "Logan... _Your Majesty_." she pressed. "Please explain yourself, the reason as to why you are in my chamber at," she glanced at her impressively sized, ornate clock, " _one o'clock in the morning_." He met her gaze to see her folding her arms and scowling, quite the disapproving look, and it was an attractive one, the way her lip curled a little, and her nose wrinkled.

     "But don't you think it's funny?" he persisted in his previous thought, slowly pushing himself from the furniture to make his way across the room. "I, honestly, have no idea who you are. It's...odd, isn't it? That a man doesn't so much as recognize his own family when she walks by. It's...It's _irritating_ , that's what it is." he rubbed his chin in thought of it, stopping in front of the bed before staring at her, assessing her features, searching for a clue, though the room was a bit blurry. She stared right back at him in disbelief, he guessed, that he should be there in the first place. When was the last time they even spoke to one another?

     "This isn't funny." she scoffed. "Whatever reason you have for being in here, you need to find your way out, and back to your chamber." she instructed, but he resisted.

     "What's your favorite color?" he asked, gleaning insight. "I'd bet my life it's blue...It is blue, isn't it?"

     She pulled back the covers, swinging her legs to the side of the bed to rise. He inched closer to her as she did so, completely vexed, as to how she could move so gracefully. She rose to full height and huffed at him.

     "Come on. Back to your room you go." she drawled, waving toward the door and reaching for his arm, but he didn't want to leave. Not yet, not until he knew, had it all pieced together, had the answer. " _Come on_." she repeated a bit more forcefully.

     "Look at you." he smirked. "Ordering about the King of Albion."

     "Please, Logan-"

     "You have absolutely no sense of propriety. Well, at least that hasn't changed." He said this as she reached for his arm again, her gentle touch becoming not so gentle as she tried to drag him toward the door. He yanked his arm away, and her smaller frame came crashing to his. "You've no decency." he remarked. "I suppose neither have I."

     At those words he grabbed her, cupping her shoulders with his hands, picking her up, then slammed her down onto her bed. She let out a slight whimper of surprise, and he had to admit, it sounded just as appealing as she looked, and all sense left his head for a moment as he pinned her down, reaching for her wrists as she struggled underneath of him, gripping them tightly and pinning them down. He straddled her, hooking his legs over hers so that she couldn't kick if she wanted, and she bucked against him, anger flooding her features.

     "Get off of me!" she scathed. "Go back to bed! You're drunk!"

     "I can't." he shrugged. "I'm far too curious of something, and I wonder if you are as well."

     She groaned and then growled as she fought with him. "Curious of what?" she inquired, detesting of his close proximity, though she didn't scream, which was interesting. Apparently she assumed he wouldn't actually do anything to harm her, and was simply being a drunken idiot. Drunk, yes. Idiotic? Perhaps. But interested nonetheless. He sat up straighter and looked down at her.

     "I'm curious to know if we're actually related." he admitted with a raised brow.

     "What?" she squeaked. "Bloody hell, Logan! Let me up or I swear-"

     "You and I are nothing alike." he interrupted, leaning close to her face. "What bonds us as family, I wonder? You, living in my home? Eating my food, drinking from my cabinet, spending my money on gowns and pretty jewels?" he barked a little heatedly. "I passed you in the hall earlier today and I didn't even recognize you. It's like I didn't even _know_ you, didn't even remember you _existed_." he sat up straight again. "I'm just curious. If you and I are so far apart, how in hell can we even be related at all? Do you think it's possible? That one of us was lied to, perhaps? One of us is not the true blood of the Hero father who left us both? Which one of us?...You perhaps?" he shrugged. "You look like our mother. Though more beautiful than she ever was."

     His voice had softened with his honest opinion, but her frustration still burned, as he still held her tightly to the bed, searching her eyes for answers and finding none.

     "If you don't let me go right now, Logan, I will scream and wake this whole bloody castle!" she snapped. And he erupted in laughter at this, thinking how interesting this would be to encounter.

     "Go ahead." he smiled. "I am the ruler of Albion, little sister. You can say anything you like, do anything you like, and it wouldn't matter. Who do you think anyone would believe? You? Or their King?" he leaned in close to her face. "Do you really think anyone in Bowerstone would _dare_ accuse their King of intruding upon his so called younger sibling?"

     She fumed, breathing heavily underneath of him, alarmed by this truth, that she could do nothing, and he could do anything. And when she heaved her chest, how it pressed against the silken shirt she wore. There was little to be left to the imagination, he realized, finding himself unable to find words for a moment as he stared down at her.

     "I want to know." he said evenly, slightly loosening his grip on her wrists. "I have to know."

     "Have to know what, Logan?" she demanded, her head flopping back against the bed as she looked up at him, finally realizing that fighting him was futile. It exposed her neck and collar bone to his point of view in a desirable way, and the smooth milky skin aglow by the moon, delightful shadows waning with said light, accentuating her features.

     He relaxed, laying down on top of her, ignoring the look of disgust forming on her face, how she winced as he pressed against her warm, soft body. She squirmed, though it did nothing to dissuade him, but the movement itself actually exciting him. Too naive to notice that the way she fought against him felt like she was encouraging him to thrust into her, which he did, becoming harder than he already was simply by touching her thighs, his resolve ever crumbling like dirt. She turned her face away from his, slamming her eyes shut, though exposing her neck once more, the perfect draw of muscle, and he was captivated by it. Every fiber in her slender frame froze, wound tight, and she grimaced, but for a small moment in between, as she breathed heavy under his weight, her body softened, seemingly curious of the situation she found herself in. She huffed once more, lest she betray herself, and still expected an answer from him.

     "I have to know if what I feel inside is _real_." he groaned into her ear, hearing and feeling her breath catch in her throat, same as his. "If this ache is nothing but simple want or need, merely impulse...or something more." he murmured, his words wrought with sincerity.

     "Logan, this is perverse." she argued. "You are drunk. This isn't real. There is nothing _more_. This is senseless, and wrong."

     "Is it?" he whispered. "It doesn't feel that way. In fact, right now it feels _perfect_." he said with heavy breath in her ear, only an inch or so from it. "Don't you want to know?" he asked. "Don't you need to know?...If it is truly senseless and wrong, as you said, or...If it isn't something else entirely."

     "Logan-"

     "Kiss me." he said in her ear. "Kiss me, and tell me what you feel, and regardless of the answer, I will trouble you no more." he pleaded. "I need to know."

     "Get off of me." she fought quietly, shaking. "Please."

     "As your King, I _command_ you." he persisted angrily, squeezing her wrists once more, to the point that she winced in pain from the act. She turned her face to his, glaring at him, seething with rage, though she would not display it more physically, knowing full well she couldn't fight him, not without repercussion, her cheeks bruising with color, too embarrassed to yet try to call for help, he imagined, or simply knew better than to stigmatize her King. She looked up at him with a heated gaze.

     "You're sick." she fumed. "You need help."

     "I do." he agreed, dangerously close to her face as he spoke. "And I am. So cure me."

     She wrinkled her brow, tilting her head to glare at him, rebelling of his request.

     "You reek of brandy. You're probably so drunk you don't even know where you are. Or who you are speaking with, Logan. It's me. Adalia. Your _sister_ , remember? This is insane. Let me go." she pleaded with him.

     "How can you be my sister?" he asked again, still confused, and trying to make her see. "I'm a stranger to you, as you are to me. Admit it."

     "It's true, it seems we are estranged as of late, but I-"

     "Kiss me, _Adalia_." he emphasized her name, conveying that yes, he did indeed know whose body he pressed against, whose room he was in at such a late hour, and whose breasts pressed against him, whose lower lip he ached to bite, and who he sought to claim. "I won't ask again." he murmured softly, though glaring daggers. She bit her lip, though not in a sensual way, but in a way that meant she was fighting back tears. "I need to know." he said again.

     Her eyes slammed shut once more as she choked back a sob.

     "Don't do this to me." she pleaded.

     "I already have. A thousand times over in my mind." he relented. "Over and over, and I can't make it stop. It won't stop. So tell me. Tell me why I want so desperately to give in when I know how wrong it is. Tell me why I need this so _badly_." he breathed in her ear with his words, only a hair's breath above her skin, once more thrusting as he spoke the last word. "Show me. Show me the reality in this fog, little sister, before I break apart and take it for my own."

     She let out a heavy and jagged edged sigh, a tear escaping to slide down her cheek, then blend with her tangled hair.

     "If I kiss you, will you let me go?" she asked with such a quiet voice.

     "If I'm right about how I feel, I may never." he admitted.

     "You're wrong." she countered, and with a quick inhalation, bracing herself for that moment, she lifted her head, catching his lips in hers.

     Hesitant, but gentle. Sweet, and innocent of a kiss it was, so brief, yet it left him breathless as her voluptuous lips met his. She meant to tear herself away, but her breath hitched, and when her lips parted, he took that small window of an opening to press into her, and deepen the kiss. She felt it, didn't she? He reveled in that. The way her body untangled itself from its coil and relaxed underneath of him. Her fists unclenched and so he finally let go of her wrists, reaching down to scoop an arm around her waist, and slowly brush the other against her cheek, feeling her shiver at his touch, before edging along her jawline, then sweeping through her hair, cradling her head. The source of the sensation, the trembling beneath him, matched his own, the heat building between them. Her hands still frozen in place where he left them, at her sides, still unsure of this desire. He broke from the kiss for just a moment, waiting for her to protest, but hoping and praying she didn't.

     "Why do I feel this way?" she whimpered under him.

     "For the same reason I do." he managed to say as he kissed across her cheek, then down her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, no longer slight, but thick and powerful this close, beckoning to him. The taste of honey still on his lips. She mixed it in her tea, didn't she? He despised tea, but loved how it tasted on her tongue, mixed with more natural elements.

     "I can't do this." he heard her protest, though it was not anger she spoke with, but uncertainty. "Please...Logan."

     She brought a hand to his chest, aiming to push him away, though getting lost somewhere between his weighted kiss, pressed against her collar, his hand gripping her waist tighter, as his other left her neck to venture down, finally grazing the breast he'd been mesmerized by, feeling it fill his hand entirely when he groped. The volume of such, perfect in his grasp, and her reaction less detest, and more innocence, the sound she made somewhere between a gasp and a shudder. Where her hand still rested on his chest, she gripped the folds of his shirt, while he deftly moved to lift her tunic, tracing with his fingers across her form, up to a naked and exposed breast, soft skin to be tainted by his calloused hand. She felt absolutely perfect underneath of him, and this wasn't enough. He had to have more, and he couldn't let her say no. He wanted to hear her say yes. He wanted to hear with his own ears that she wanted this, wanted him, as badly as he needed her.

     He found her lips with his own once more, tasting with his tongue, gripping her tighter when he heard her whimper in his mouth. Such a delightful sound, and she made it at his touch, at his doing, and every ounce of patience left him. She didn't realize she'd been rising up to him, pressing against him as he equally shoved into her. He didn't realize either until he felt her ever so slightly shift, and then move her leg up to wrap around him and gently squeeze. At such gesture, his resolve seemed to dissipate before his eyes.

     He hurriedly sat on his calves to hungrily rip her tunic the rest of the way off, delighting in her look of shock, though groaning at the way she seized the opportunity to attempt to scramble from him. With one hand he snatched her, pinned her down, holding her at bay, letting his hand lazily wander over her for a moment before he yanked down her silken undergarment, closing his eyes briefly, clenching his jaw with the shred of the article of clothing, the sound it made, enjoying it. Her eyes widened. She was naked and helpless before him now, and he a hapless fool at the sight of her. He quickly unfastened his cravat, then his vest, trying desperately to rid himself of such restraint, ripping and tearing at the seams of the fabric, like beast trying to escape a cage. She tried once more to flee, fear mixing with the shock on her face. Once more he dragged her back down, once free of his shirt, flopping her back against the pillow, wanting, needing release from this prison he bound them in. She held up a hand to stay him.

     "P-Please...don't hurt me." she mumbled frantically underneath him.

     "Never would I ever wish such a thing." he said as he claimed her mouth once more with his own. "Tell me you want me." he begged between kissing. "Do not lie...Tell me you want me and I'm yours. Deny it, and I'll go. But do not lie to me."

     She nearly hyperventilated underneath of him, chest rising and falling so quickly, scared, enamored, confused, taunted, hurting, wanting...aching. Aching with the same wanton desire, and guilt as he. But it felt perfect. So perfect the beat of her heart, matching his own in rhythm, her soft skin grazing his chest as she searched his eyes with her own, the flood of color to her cheeks, the swell of her lips from his hungry kiss, prolonging the definitive moment between them that threatened to spill over and destroy them if left unattended.

     "I do." she panted out, fighting tears. "I want you." she sobbed. "And I don't understand it."

     He broke apart at that. Sobering up a little, in that moment, staring down at her teary eyes. It was no dream. Strangers, though they were, both hiding a craving for something unidentified. Something unspeakable, unthinkable, though unrelenting. But she didn't want to feel this way, he could see that. She didn't want this desire formulating within her, this need, this ocean of flame that licked and nipped at them both. Reeling them both, sending them crashing to the shore like a riverboat caught by a heavy tide. But how beautiful she looked under him. No equal to such beauty could he call to mind. There was none.

     "I do." he said to her.

     His hands roamed over her as he kissed, then nipped at her lip, hearing her sigh, starting to give in, just a little, starting to enjoy it, guiltlessly. She kissed him feverishly, as he moved his hand to rest between her thighs that shook, finding warmth, a moist center, feeling her shake as he sought to claim her, slipping a finger inside, reaching, barely, testing her. She was no longer a child, but how could someone so young even begin to understand the feeling washing over him as she touched him back, tentatively caressing his back with soft hands, drive him to press further, incessantly careening his finger against flesh, until he was certain there would be no argument to him taking her completely. Watching her head roll back, hearing her gasp, clutching him tightly, feeling muscles seize then flex with his movement. The moon hiding behind clouds, shrouding them in darkness, unnerving him that he should be denied such a sight.

     "Don't move." he said quietly then, confusing her as he left the bed. He strolled over to the window, wrenching shut the thick velvet curtain, feeling her eyes upon his back as he lit the candles near her bed. "I want to see better the body I have coveted tonight." he said to her, as the room basked in a brighter light than before. She watched him as he shirked his boots, and the remainder of his clothes and returned to her. The candlelight illuminated her curves, and also her expression. It was unclear. Uncertainty, but not shame, nervousness, but not fear. Hesitation...innocence. Her own eyes pouring over his body, curious of it, as he moved to lay on top of her once more, pulling her legs around him, pulling her closer, watching the color of her eyes turn to that of fire in the warm light, and her cheeks enflame as well. Fire, dancing across his skin when she touched him, slowly smoothing over his chest, then reaching down to his cock, making him groan in pleasure at the touch.

     Not so innocent after all. Or perhaps simply curious. Curious if she could produce the same reaction from him as he did her, and succeeding. Grasping his length, making him thrust into her hand, letting out a rasp of a sound, finding one hand on her thigh, the other, somewhere in her hair, blurring at her touch, faltering in her mouth when she kissed him. He ripped her hand away after a time, replacing it with his own, as to guide himself into the soft center of her that waited. He gripped her thigh still, fingers digging into her, holding her in place, though she jerked and started to push him away when attempted to enter. Second guessing the whole thing in that moment, scooting away from him though he quickly pulled her back to him.

     "Please don't. It hurts." she whimpered, shame and regret clouding her features. "I can't do this...I want to stop. I've changed my mind."

     "It's too late." he groaned before kissing her again, then wrapping both arms around her to prevent escape, deepening the kiss. She wedged her arms between them, pressing against his chest, trying to push him away, but it didn't work. She wasn't strong enough. Upon confirming her virginity, to his relief, that none had touched her but him, he already set his mind to being her first, and her _only_. No other man would claim her but him. For this was no mere empty, meaningless lust that fueled him, but a desire that ran deeper. He could feel it the moment her lips met his. He broke the kiss to clamp his hand over her mouth and forced himself in, feeling her let out a tearful cry, though muffled by his hand. She tried to turn her face away, break free from his grasp, but found she could not, and settled on slamming her eyes shut, nails digging into him as he slowly thrust into her. Her whole body trembled underneath of him, silently begging him to release her, but he refused. There was no denying him what he desired. He'd come too far.

     "You must relax, darling." he murmured into her ear, heatedly, straining with need for her as he moved her legs down into a more comfortable position around him, encouraging her to take it. She whimpered, breathing rapidly, shaking, in pain, but she eventually obeyed and attempted to relax underneath of him and slow her breathing. So warm and wet around him then, a gentle pool of unknown, untapped seduction she possessed in the innocence he was robbing from her. She was his, and his alone. He struggled to keep such a slow pace, but he was determined to draw it out as long as he could, though the feel of her skin, so smooth against his own, was torture. He reached down to turn her hips, tilting her upward and into him, struggling between ragged breaths, leaving them to burn into her neck, her skin so feverish, just like his. With the alcohol still swimming, dulling his senses, his release was luckily prolonged, though he didn't know how much longer he could last. Watching her slowly morph from a frozen, shaking form to...something more. Getting used to the feel of him inside her, starting to like it. If she were to scream now, then let it be screams of pleasure drown by his kiss.

     He removed his hand from her mouth, then kissed her, once more claiming her, muffling her cries as tender fingers searched for him, with every thrust clinging to him. He let out a moan at her touch, how tight she was, how soft her body felt, all heavenly sensations. She wrapped her legs around him, making him desperately want to move faster, but he managed to refrain from doing so. He set his mind on not letting her go until she knew exactly what burned within him at that moment.

     "You said you wouldn't hurt me." she said against his mouth, bottom lip trembling, bringing her hand up to his cheek, trying to make him feel guilty, it seemed. But he was past the point of guilt, past the point of caring. And the look she gave him, eyes glazed over with lust.

     "I said I wouldn't wish to." he corrected softy, before nibbling her bottom lip. "But I have to. _I need to_." Once more he thrust, watching her tremble. "Endure it, and I'll make it worth your while." he said into her mouth, craving her kiss. "Nothing in this world worth having is obtained without sacrifice."

     "And what do you sacrifice?" she asked him, making him chuckle a little.

     "More than you think." he answered before sweeping her into another kiss, picking up pace. She clung to him more tightly then, burying her head in his neck, softly moaning, enduring any pain, or perhaps finding pleasure in it, coaxing him to his release. He meant to pull away before hand, and probably should have, but she whimpered something that drove him over the edge all too quickly.

     "Logan." she said, and the way she said his name, so sweetly, he closed his eyes as they rolled back, the waves finally crashing to shore, he came, spilling into her, throbbing, breathless, frozen in place as he simply enjoyed the feeling for a moment, before his head dropped to the crook of her neck and he relaxed on top of her. He couldn't breathe at all for a moment. It was done. It was over. He was free. And exhausted.

     Slowly he withdrew from her for a moment, flopping down on his back beside her. If she wanted to run, now was her chance, as he hadn't the energy to stop her, or do anything, for a few minutes, as his head swam and his heart still raced inside his chest. But she simply lay there beside him, staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily as well, most likely trying to make sense of what happened between them, same as he. It was a very long, gruesome minute before she finally spoke.

     "Did...did you enjoy it?" she asked softly, as if she didn't know. He smirked a little.

     "I did. And you?" he glanced over at her, seeing how she looked very shy at that moment.

     "I'm...not sure." she answered honestly. Biting her lip, bending her legs and hugging her knees together before looking over at him.

     "Do you want more?" he asked, eyeing her lip, watching the candlelight dancing across her face, the heated look she gave him then.

     "Yes." she answered. "I want more."...

* * *

     He gave her much more. He found renewed strength and endurance upon hearing those words come from her lips, and so he gave her what she wanted. _Repeatedly_. Finding the center of her pleasure, the precise way she needed to be held, to be kissed, to be touched, to be _fucked_ , until she came, swelling around him, then bursting, shaking and almost crying from the pleasure. And sometime after, he held her there, in place, clutching her tightly as he lay behind her, pressed closely to her soft curves, kissing the back of her neck, then running a hand up her side, and across her arm, giving her goosebumps, as he contemplated what he'd done.

     She was his, wasn't she? This was the feeling that he could not explain, but somehow knew to be true? This was why he felt so disconnected? So empty, hallow, as dead inside as a corpse? Because he'd yet to be with her? It somehow made sense. And it made him question everything up to this point.

     He had to leave her there, had to return to his own quarters eventually. He could lock the door, and never let either of them out of that room, but Sir Walter had given her butler a key. As Adalia had a problem with rising at a decent hour on her own, Jasper had been given the task of getting her out of bed in the morning, serving her breakfast and tea, she explained. Though she wouldn't sleep alone. That mangy dog that she kept as a pet came scratching at the back door eventually, whining to be let in, as she was dressing into a fresh set of sleepwear, and begrudgingly Logan let the animal in, and it slunk away from him, running straight to her bed. The dog's way of dismissing him, he gathered, picking up his clothing from the floor.

     He refused to leave the room as if she were cheap, and being used. He nudged the dog out of the way so that he could climb on top of her once more and plant a heated kiss. She welcomed it, yet...there was still a hint of confusion in her eyes. She couldn't understand her heart at the moment, though he understood his. It wasn't something that could be fought, or controlled, and he didn't attempt to do so.

     He left her quarters with a satisfied body, a tired, but somewhat sobered mind, and the certainty in his heart that he knew what this feeling was. He had been hallow, yet with her felt fulfilled. He never loved her, not as a brother. In that respect she was a stranger to him, perhaps was always meant to have been. But as he closed her door behind him the thought struck his mind that in other ways, deeper, more soulful ways...he could love her. Perhaps already did.

     And what began as a mere flicker of emotion, soon became unquenchable. His heart's desire, as wicked as it seemed to be.


End file.
